


I'm With You (And You, And You, And You)

by dear_monday



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Dom/sub, Facial, M/M, Spanking, sub-sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:44:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_monday/pseuds/dear_monday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank lets go of so much when he plays, it makes sense that he needs someone to pick up the pieces afterwards. And - well. Why shouldn't it be them? There's no one he trusts more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm With You (And You, And You, And You)

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for references to orgasm denial and bondage. Massive thanks to [synonomy](http://synonomy.livejournal.com), [eflorentino](http://eflorentino.livejournal.com) and [verbyna](http://verbyna.livejournal.com) for their help ♥

  
**_.one_**

 

There's just something about the way Frank screams and rages and tears himself apart every night, baring his bones. It's messy, and every time it leaves him scratched raw and so high his feet are barely touching the ground.  
   
It's terrifying.  
   
It scares Gerard on pretty much a daily basis, how completely Frank trusts them. He feels responsible every time Frank puts himself in their hands. Which – actually isn't what's happening right now. Keeping one eye on Frank is second nature, and for the third or fourth time this week, Gerard thinks that's really not a bad thing.  
   
Frank tips his head back, laughs, exposing the line of his throat, and Gerard's fingers itch. He can't help himself. One more minute. He's giving Frank sixty seconds to realize what he's doing wrong, to come back. He counts. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight.  
   
And then the girl wraps her hand around Frank's wrist and tugs, leaning in close to whisper in his ear, and Frank ducks his head, doesn't move away or shake her off, and Gerard thinks, _fuck this_. Frank can't make a straight decision, not now. It isn't just that he isn't hers to take, more that she doesn't know him. She doesn't know what he needs after a show like that; she'll wind him up and string him out, take him apart without knowing how to put him back together again.  
   
Gerard doesn't share his – _their_ – things because other people don't know how to use them. Other people will only bring them back broken.  
   
He's across the dim, crowded room in the space of a breath, running one hand lightly down Frank's back and curling it around his hip. Frank inhales sharply and tenses under Gerard's hand, and the girl's eyes narrow. She opens her mouth, but Gerard smiles at her with all his teeth and she closes it again without a word. Frank looks down, doesn't move – _good boy_ – and Gerard tucks Frank's hair behind his ear and enjoys the way he shivers despite the stifling heat of the packed bar.  
   
"Come on," he says, low and rough. "We're leaving."  
 

  
 

+

   
   


  
"What do you _say?_ " prompts Gerard, his fingers tightening in Frank's hair. Frank is on his knees in the back of their bus, pressed up between an Ray's bag and Mikey's bass, a cable looped over one of his ankles and his t-shirt discarded in the corner. His hands are clasped behind his back, his collarbones and the sharp lines of his shoulders already glistening faintly with sweat. Gerard catches himself licking his lips.  
   
" _Sorry_ , fuck," Frank grits out, hissing through his teeth and squirming.  
   
"Really? You don't sound that sorry, I gotta say. Come on, you _know_ why we can't just let you fuck anyone who wants you. We're only trying to keep you safe."  
   
Frank whines and twists as Gerard presses two fingers into the angry red bitemark tucked between his neck and his shoulder, and – fuck. It catches Gerard every time, the way Frank will fight tooth and nail in a bar brawl and scream and spit and get his nose broken or his shoulder dislocated again, but he'll sit and take it when Gerard hurts him, and he'll fucking _enjoy_ it. Gerard doesn't know what it is; he doesn't particularly like hurting anyone else, there's just something about Frank that brings his nasty streak out to play.  
   
"I think," he continues, voice smooth and lulling, inviting Frank to agree. "You do it on purpose. You _wanted_ this to happen, right? I think you know exactly what you're doing. What were you gonna do? Let her take you home, let her suck your cock?" the words drop one after the other into the thick silence, filthy even when they shouldn't be. He's not thinking about what he's saying, and it doesn't matter that he sounds like exactly the kind of porn he hates – it's the rise and fall of his smoked-out, stage-shot voice that Frank follows, not the words themselves. "She would have done, you know, any of them would. The way you play, lying there on your back with your legs all spread out like that, those faces you make? Shit, I think you know – " he digs his fingers in a little harder to make his point, and Frank chokes visibly on a gasp. " – _exactly_ what you look like out there."  
   
Gerard runs his thumb over the swell of Frank's lower lip. Frank draws a shaky breath and shifts a little, splaying his knees wider apart. His head drops forward to rest against Gerard's thigh, warm even through the denim, giving Gerard an uninterrupted view from the nape of his neck all the way down the ridges of his spine to his clasped hands and the yellowing bruise peeking out above the waistband of his jeans (the corner of an amp or maybe Mikey's teeth, Gerard doesn't know). Gerard takes a moment to admire him, and the way he does this like he does everything else – giving himself so completely he gets lost in it.  
   
Gerard huffs a low laugh. "Fuck. You're lucky it wasn't Ray who caught you, you wouldn't be able to sit down for a week."  
   
Frank fucking _keens_ and Gerard's stomach drops; Frank's always so _into_ this.  
   
"Sorry, sorry, _fuck_ ," he says, his voice shaky. "Let me – please, I can..."  
   
"Uh uh. Not until I say." Gerard leans back as far as he can in the confined space and Frank sways, suddenly caught off balance by the loss of contact. "What do you say, huh?" he murmurs, running a finger down Frank's neck, following his fluttering pulse. "Do we need to get you a collar? Start marking you up a bit more for everyone to see, stop shit like this happening?"  
   
Frank's eyes are unfocussed when he looks up. He does this for the others, too, goes under for their hands and their cocks, but Gerard not-so-secretly fucking loves the way it only ever takes the sound of his voice to disconnect Frank from himself like this.  
   
"You," Frank says, and swallows. "I. Yeah, shit. Yours."  
   
"Ours," Gerard agrees, threading his fingers through Frank's hair again and toying with the button on his own jeans with his other hand. Frank shifts forwards like he's thinking about undoing it with his teeth, then stops, probably remembering the last time he tried to pull something like that without permission. He told Gerard about it late one night when they were the only ones awake, whispering hot and dirty into Gerard's mouth, hand tight and perfect around Gerard's cock as he told him how Bob had held him down and fucked him slow and shallow until he could barely even form the words to beg.  
   
"Good," Gerard says, a little breathlessly, watching the way Frank thrills at the praise. He flicks the button open then slides the zipper down; the bus is empty but for them, and the rasp of it presses obscenely loudly into his ears. His jeans are stiff with several shows' worth of dried sweat, but he manages to work them down over his hips and then his thighs, unhurried and easy. They ran out of clean underwear a month ago and then out of dirty underwear a week after that, so he isn't wearing any, and Frank's eyes on him are hot and hungry. He's already hard, but he holds out a dirty, sweaty hand for Frank to lick and gives himself a couple of quick strokes before resting his hands behind Frank's head, fingers in Frank's hair again. At first, when Frank was still settling into being owned and shared, he could never quite resist the temptation to move his hands from behind his back and use them to anchor Gerard's (whoever's) hips, and for a while his wrists were permanently ringed with bruising from improvised cuffs. But now – Gerard watches proudly, Frank's hands don't move an inch even as he wraps his mouth around the head of Gerard's cock and sinks down, down, down. He doesn't bother with anything fancy, just opens wide and takes Gerard deep, cheeks hollowing and eyelashes dark against his cheekbones.  
   
" _Now_ I can believe you're sorry." Gerard's head falls back as Frank swallows around him, and he hears a low moan that he's pretty sure was his, but his mind is a roaring blank and it takes him far too long to remember that is was supposed to be about more than just getting off. _Frank_ , he reminds himself, _this is for Frank, to keep him together_. Or – mostly for Frank, at least _._ He guides Frank's head further down, pushing a little; he knows Frank's limits as well as his own, knows what he can and can't take. But Frank surprises him like he has so many times before and sinks a little lower, like he _wants_ to do this for Gerard, wants to show him what he can do. Gerard gasps out a breathy _fuck, yeah_ as he feels the back of Frank's throat against the head of his dick, and he gives in to the urge to just hold Frank still and fuck his mouth, remind him whose he is.  
   
Gerard tugs sharply on his hair, keeping him in place and making Frank moan around his cock, and – _fuck_ , that's good. Gerard's hips stutter forwards and he's close already, too close, but Frank's just sitting there _taking_ it, his voice is going to be so fucking wrecked, and –  
   
Gerard pulls back. Frank looks up at him, bold and unashamed and trusting, flushed and messy. Gerard keeps one hand wrapped around the back of Frank's neck, anchoring him in place, and curls the other hand around his own cock. He almost doesn't know where to look; his eyes flick between Frank's spit-slick lips, his upturned eyes, the sweat collecting in the hollow of his throat, the ink fluttering over his skin in time with his quick, shallow breaths, the way his hands are shaking behind his back with the effort of not touching himself.  
   
"Motherfucking _gorgeous_ , fuck," Gerard chokes out, jacking himself faster. Frank tips his head a little further back, offering himself completely as his tongue darts out to sweep over his lips, and Gerard is fucking _gone_ , coming hard with a broken moan and striping Frank's face with white. His heart is pounding in his ears as he slumps, spent, his vision swimming even as he tries to fix the sight of Frank's face in his memory. Frank's eyes are closed, his lips slightly parted and his expression serene and beatific. Gerard shivers slightly because – _his_. Theirs.  
   
He takes his time coming down, watching greedily as Frank licks the come from his lips. "You can – shit, you can jerk off," Gerard says, between long, dragging breaths. "So good, you've been so _good_."  
   
Frank lets out a thin whine of gratitude, his hands shaking as he struggles frantically with his zipper, and the involuntary noise he makes as he finally gets his hand around his cock sends aftershocks rippling through Gerard. Frank isn't teasing himself or trying to draw it out, just stroking hard and fast and sloppy while Gerard watches.  
   
"Come on," he murmurs, encouraging. "You fucking earned it. Come for me, Frank."  
   
It's like Gerard's permission was all he needed; Frank stills, slack-mouthed, and spills all over his hand, then slides down, boneless, against the bag by his side. For a few seconds, there's nothing but the sounds of their breathing, but then Gerard reaches out and runs a finger through the come drying on Frank's face and dripping over his chin and down his neck.  
   
"Look at you," he says. "Jesus Christ."  
   
Frank's smile is fucked-out and lazy. "Yeah," he says, and then, more quietly, "Thanks." His voice is shot to hell and his eyes are still burning into Gerard's, but the light in them is steady and clear again, a light bulb instead of a wildfire.  
   
Gerard looks at Frank, propped up on one elbow, his cheeks flushed, his hair sticking to his forehead, his jeans not even halfway down his thighs, boneless and pliable and so at ease with _belonging_ and being used and loved and wanted.  
   
"Any time," he says.  
   
   
   
 

 ** _.two_**

   


  
They all knew it was going to be bad; the hot weather always gets under Frank's skin and the suffocating pressure of a gathering storm has them all ready to climb the walls, but it isn't until they fall into the cab that'll take them to the hotel that Mikey realizes quite _how_ bad.  
   
It was – he counts back, at least half an hour since they stumbled off the stage, but Frank's eyes are wide and wild and he's still breathing hard, twitching like he's going to claw his way out of his own skin at any second.  
   
"Guys," Mikey says quietly, and watches Bob's sharp inhale, Ray's eyebrows drawing together, Gerard's soft _oh_. "You can go out," he says. "I've got Frank."  
   
"You sure?" Gerard's eyes are big and worried. Mikey waves him off.  
   
"Fine, go and get a fucking burger or something. We're good." He looks at Frank, pinned between Bob and Ray in the backseat. His eyes are fever-bright and he doesn't look like he heard a word, and, yeah, it's going to be one of those nights. It scared them at first, before they'd had him long enough to see the patterns. This thing, whatever it is with Frank, runs in cycles, building to an unbearable, screaming crescendo until he's hopelessly needy, an animal on stage and a menace to himself and everyone around him, and then pathetically grateful as soon as someone gets their hands on him. It might take two of them, but he'll come back like he always does, and he'll be a little more stable for a while before things get bad again. They're learning.  
   
Frank nearly falls over himself in his eagerness to get out of the cab almost before it's even pulled up at the hotel, but Mikey catches him by the arm. Frank tenses up and looks blankly at him for a moment, like he's never seen Mikey before in his life, then his eyes clear slightly and he relaxes a little.  
   
"This is what we're gonna do," Mikey says softly as Ray pays the driver and the cab pulls away again. He doesn't need to shout to make Frank listen, never did. "We're gonna get the keys and take our bags up. I'm gonna get a coffee, you're gonna stay in the room. You're gonna be waiting when I get back. Okay?"  
   
Frank's nod is short and jerky, less of a nod and more of a twitch.  
   
"Okay?" repeats Mikey, tightening his fingers around Frank's wrist and watching his eyes darken.  
   
"Yeah. Yeah, shit, okay. Just – don't be long? Please?"  
   
Good enough. Mikey lets go. "Keys," he says, and follows the others through to the check-in desk.  
   


+

   


  
   
Frank is on Mikey as soon as he's got the door open, pushing him back against the wall and rubbing up against him like it's been months instead of minutes.  
   
"Mikey, Mikey, Mikey, fuck, thought you weren't coming back. I need – come on, _please_ , man," he mumbles against Mikey's shoulder, grinding his hips against Mikey's thigh, his voice breaking on a moan. Mikey works his hands down between them, gets them around Frank's arms and pushes him backwards.  
   
"Stop. Fuck. What did I tell you?"  
   
"Wait, you said to wait, but – "  
   
"Right. Bed."  
   
Frank backs away slowly, trying so hard to do as he's told even though it looks like it's killing him. "Better," says Mikey. He toes off his sneakers and pushes open the bathroom door, turning back to look over his shoulder. Frank's on his back on the bed, legs splayed out and hard-on obvious through his jeans, t-shirt rucked up over his hip, hair tangled and cheeks flushed, watching Mikey's every move. Mikey takes a moment just to look; Frank's so fucking _shameless_ when he gets this desperate. "I'm gonna go and clean up," he says. "You'd better be naked when I get back if you want to come tonight."  
   
It isn't an empty threat, and Frank knows it. Mikey turns away again, but he still hears Frank's ragged inhale and the frantic shift and drag as he tears at his sweat-damp clothes.  
   


+

   


  
   
Fifteen minutes later, Frank is arching up under Mikey, bearing down on his hand and making needy, gasping noises every time Mikey crooks his fingers.  
   
"Ready, fuck, I'm _ready_ ," he hisses, a desperate sob lurking somewhere in the rough edges of his voice, his hands clenching in the sheets. Mikey presses the fingers of his free hand deeper into the dip of Frank's hipbone.  
   
"That's another thirty seconds," he says. He's not much for talking when he's got his fingers or his dick in Frank; he never knows what to say. He talks with his hands instead, and Frank writhes and whimpers, throwing his head back. Mikey's pushing him further than he normally would, but if Mikey makes it too easy then Frank's still going to be tightly-wound and dangerous tomorrow. They've all seen him without this, they owe it to him to stop it ever happening again. Whatever he hasn't managed to exorcise from himself on stage spills over into aggression, making him reckless and self-destructive. Then, after that, usually bruised and bloody-nosed and falling-down drunk, he gets quietly, desperately miserable, not knowing what would have helped.  
   
That image sticks in Mikey's throat. He swallows it back, looks at Frank spread out naked and sweating and gorgeous underneath him, _for_ him, and he twists his slippery fingers just right and Frank makes the most deliciously obscene noise. One of Frank's hands jerks reflexively towards his cock before he catches himself and twists it in the sheets again.  
   
"That's right," Mikey says approvingly, his own voice sounding strange in his ears and rough with want. He mouths at Frank's neck, tasting salt and biting down, then shivering at Frank's drawn-out, breathless moan. "Okay. Enough."  
   
He slips his fingers out, and Frank whines at the loss. Mikey sits up and leans back into the stack of pillows, and Frank gets to his knees, waiting for Mikey to tell him what to do. He looks, but doesn't touch, and his eyes are huge and so dark there's a split second when Mikey actually imagines disappearing into them.  
   
"You're – you're doing good," Mikey manages to say, dragging in a deep breath and wrapping a slick hand around his cock. He takes a long look at Frank, deciding how he wants him. He flicks between Frank on his hands and knees, Frank on his back, Frank up against the wall – Frank riding him, rocking his hips as Mikey pushes into him, gasping as Mikey's blunt nails drag red streaks down his back. Fuck. Frank's watching him so carefully, all it takes is for Mikey to lean back a little further, splay his knees invitingly and exhale a _yes_ when Frank looks at him pleadingly. Frank's hands are unsteady as he grabs the condom off the nightstand and rolls it carefully onto Mikey, and Mikey's breath catches and he's willing to admit that maybe this isn't _entirely_ for Frank's benefit.  
   
Frank settles his knees on either side of Mikey's hips, breathing quick and shallow as he guides himself down onto Mikey's cock, letting out a shameless, pornographic noise as he hits that perfect angle. Mikey's hands slip a little when he gets them on Frank's hips, guiding him into a rhythm as he rocks against Mikey. Frank grinds down harder like he can't get enough, his head tipped back as Mikey's hands circle round his back and slide up to his shoulderblades before scratching down. There will be marks laid over the tattoos, angry red lines scoring through the ink, and the noise Frank makes is desperate and wanting-hot. There's no point asking him what he needs when he's like this because he doesn't _know_ , but the blazing gratitude in his face sends something coiling hotly in the pit of Mikey's stomach.  
   
" _Fuck_ ," Frank gasps, rough and wrecked. "That's – yeah, that's _it_ , oh god. _Fuck_."  
   
Mikey imagines what Frank's skin is going to look like in the morning, and digs his nails in deeper when Frank's back arches and he makes a high, needy noise of encouragement. Frank's rhythm falters, and Mikey manages a jerky nod – _come on_ – before Frank's coming hard over Mikey's stomach with a noise that sounds like it was torn out of him. Mikey follows him over the edge with a couple more quick thrusts, warmth spreading through every inch of him as he rides out his aftershocks, Frank's hips still moving with him.  
   


+

   


  
   
Afterwards, when Mikey's tied the condom off and flicked it into the bin in the corner, he looks over at Frank. Frank's watching him hopefully, his bare feet tapping a twitchy rhythm against the shitty motel carpet as he toys restlessly with the discarded condom wrapper.  
   
"Again?" says Mikey, although he isn't really that surprised. "Seriously? What are you, sixteen?"  
   
Frank shrugs, unrepentant, and something shivers through Mikey at the thought of wiping that shit-eating grin off Frank's face, pulling him back into line. He takes a moment to picture Frank on his back with his knees up around his ears, and really, who does Mikey think he's he kidding? He could totally go another round. He pushes Frank back against the tangled sheets, and Frank's breath hitches.  
   
Mikey smirks, and reaches for the lube.  
   


+

   
   
Frank looks exhausted, lying still with his face pressed into Mikey's neck. Mikey looks for tense lines in his shoulders, his arms, his fingers, but all he can see is that glowing looseness Frank gets when he's okay again, and Mikey smiles slightly to himself as he works his fingers into Frank's hair.  
   
   
   


 ** _.three_**

   
One of these days, Ray is going to get the "sorry about my friend" speech printed on business cards and keep them on his person at all times so he can hand them out whenever Frank punches someone because he thinks they looked at him the wrong way. It would save Ray a hell of a lot of breath.  
   
"But, _Ray_ ," Frank whines, as Ray hauls him bodily through the door of their cheap motel room."'S only, like, nine o' clock, we could've stayed!"  
   
"No, we couldn't," says Ray through gritted teeth, "Because that guy was built like a brick shithouse and he was about to shank you because you tried to break his nose for _no goddamn reason_."  
   
Frank opens his mouth to protest, but Ray tightens his grip warningly on Frank's arm. Frank stills instantly and stops his half-hearted struggling, licking his lips and darting a look up from under his eyelashes. "You gonna fuck me?" he breathes, pressing up close to Ray instead of fighting him. Frank's warm and pliant, and his eyes are dark. He's drunk, Ray realizes, not shitfaced but buzzed enough for it to make a difference. He's never this mouthy when he's sober. Frank tends to forget himself when he drinks; who he is, who he belongs to. Ray thinks he does it on purpose, but being taken down a peg or two now and again helps keep him grounded, so they let him. A hand in his hair or around the back of his neck on stage is damage control, something just to keep him in their orbit, but it's never quite enough.  
   
If it didn't help, they wouldn't let him drink. Besides, it's not exactly a hardship for them, and Frank's always so gorgeously apologetic in the morning. Always so keen to prove he's theirs.  
   
Now, though, not so much. "C'mon," Frank drawls, stretching the word out and grinning like he already knows he's going to get his way. "Want you to," he whispers like a secret, breath hot on Ray's neck. "Fuck, bet I could take you without your fingers, just open myself up on your dick. Wanna try?"  
   
He's already reaching for Ray's zipper, and something in Ray just – snaps. It's not an authority thing, although he knows it probably should be. It's more that Frank could have gotten hurt tonight, maybe badly enough to fuck up his playing, maybe even badly enough that they might have had to cancel the whole tour, and he's acting like nothing even happened, like he _deserves_ to get what he wants. Ray shoves him away. He likes to think of himself as a pretty laid-back dude, and he doesn't get angry often, but he's pissed as hell now and he's not letting Frank get away with murder just because he's a slutty drunk with a filthy mouth and devastating puppy eyes.  
   
" _No_ ," Ray snaps, batting Frank's wandering hands away and trying to keep his temper. "You were a fucking idiot back there. Jesus, Frank, what's it gonna take for you to _get_ it? How many more chances do you think we're gonna get, if we screw this up? What happens if you can't play, huh?"  
   
He knows, really, that best practice in this situation would to tell Frank to go to bed and warn him there'll be hell to pay if he so much as _thinks_ about quietly rubbing one out against the sheets, but it wouldn't get them anywhere. Ray doesn't want a wound-up Frank on his conscience tomorrow morning. He wonders sometimes if he's just not really cut out for this, but – fuck. It's not like the thought of putting Frank over his knee and spanking him raw is exactly unappealing.  
   
"Sorry," mumbles Frank, eyes cast down, the picture of contrition. "I... shit. I wasn't thinking." He seems to have sobered up, and he's still and quiet as he waits to be told what to do, but Ray isn't convinced. He disentangles himself from Frank's arms and settles himself as comfortably as he can on the edge of the nearest one of the room's twin beds.  
   
"Pants," he says, not loudly, but in the tone of voice that Frank knows better than to argue with. "Off. Now."  
   
Frank's flushed and wanting already, clumsy, and he struggles to get his belt undone. Ray thinks for a moment about giving Frank an extra five with the belt, just to make his point, but he decides against it. He knows there are other ways of doing this, other options – paddles and floggers and fuck knows what else – but none of that's ever really interested him. He just doesn't see the point; it's best with just his hands, skin-on-skin. Why over-complicate things?  
   
When Frank's finally managed to work his jeans off and kick them away, he looks up at Ray, apprehensive but half-hard already. Jesus _fuck_. Ray beckons, and Frank's unsteady enough on his feet that he pretty much falls right into Ray's lap. He's lithe and warm, and he shivers when Ray pushes his faded t-shirt up and out of the way, revealing skin and ink. There are scratch marks running down his back – Mikey's, probably, but that bite mark on his neck can only be Gerard's. Frank squirms slightly, shifting his weight on Ray's thighs. Ray's always stupidly surprised by how solid Frank feels, like he's still half-expecting Frank to be made of nothing but thin air and twitchy, electric energy even after all this time.  
   
"You're gonna count," says Ray, because long sentences are kind of lost on Frank when he gets like this. "I'm gonna give you twenty," he adds, and Frank nods jerkily.  
   
Ray lets out a long breath, making sure he's thinking straight before he starts, then brings his hand down hard, and Frank tenses visibly before he makes himself relax again. "One," he says, a little shakily. His skin is already starting to flush, and his voice is hoarse.  
   
Ray's careful, spreading the blows out across Frank's ass and the tops of his thighs, and Frank's increasingly breathless voice is making him think that this probably isn't the best incentive for Frank not to reoffend. By five, Frank is desperately trying to keep still, fingers clenching convulsively and making needy, gasping noises every time Ray's hand comes down, and the way his voice rises a little every time sends something coiling hot and low in Ray's stomach. He can feel Frank's dick pressing hot and hard against his thigh, and he hasn't even touched him yet. The trouble with Frank is that it's virtually impossible to think of a punishment he won't enjoy.  
   
"Christ, Frank," Ray mutters, running two fingers lightly over the curve of Frank's ass, feeling the heat rolling off his skin before striking again.  
   
"S– fuck, _six_ ," Frank groans. Ray's consciously trying not to fall into a rhythm, absorbed in the way Frank freezes expectantly when he _thinks_ the blow is about to fall, and the little shocked noises he keeps making. He knows this is about Frank, but god, he hadn't realized how badly _he'd_ needed this. Frank's never at his most controlled when he's buzzed, and there's something cathartic about the pain that just undoes him, and it's not much longer before he's gasping on every breath, his hips twitching erratically.  
   
"I can take it, don't _stop_ ," Frank grits out, and Ray doesn't.  
   
By fifteen, Frank has given up all pretence and is _writhing_ , grinding unashamedly against Ray's thigh, whimpering at the friction he's getting from the rough denim.  
   
"C'mon, Frank. You gonna make it to twenty?" Ray lays a hand on Frank's shoulder, feeling Frank flinch slightly at the touch then push back into it. Frank takes a couple of deep breaths, loud and harsh, and nods, and Ray starts again. There's just something about watching Frank lose it like this that feels – intimate, somehow, like Frank's trusting him with something by letting him see.  
   
"Sixteen – ngh, seventeen," Frank says indistinctly, as Ray's hand comes down twice in quick succession. Frank's trembling, open and vulnerable, and Ray feels almost drunk with it. His hand is smarting, so he hits harder.  
   
"Eighteen, oh god," Frank gasps, his voice breaking on something like a sob. "I need – I can't – "  
   
Ray thinks for a split second that it's going to be too much, that Frank's going to safeword out, but he doesn't. He gives Frank a moment to recover before the next slap, and Frank lets out a helpless, choked cry before he manages something that's more slick, dirty moan than actual word, but it's close enough to "nineteen" that Ray lets it go.  
   
He pauses, makes himself stop just to breathe. Frank's needy and frantic, panting, and his skin is sweat-slick, glowing and hot under Ray's hands as he rocks his hips desperately against Ray's thigh. "Please, _please_ ," he whimpers, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, gonna – oh, _fuck_..."  
   
That'll do. He's sorry enough. Ray takes pity on him and brings his hand down one more time, right across Frank's ass, and Frank gasps out a broken " _Twenty!_ " and comes with a long, shuddering moan. He feels loose and boneless as Ray maneuvers him off his lap and onto the bed, face down, and Ray's hands are unsteady as he fumbles with his zipper and fucking _finally_ gets a hand around his dick.  
   


+

   
   
Frank is asleep by the time Ray's finished cleaning them both up, crashed out on the bed with his t-shirt tangled in his fingers where he'd passed out midway through taking it off. His expression's almost – peaceful, Ray thinks, which isn't really a word that should ever be used in the same sentence as Frank's name. When Ray catches a glimpse of his own reflection in the smeared wall mirror, he realizes he's smiling.  
   
He can't even bring himself to be pissed that Frank came all over his last clean pair of jeans. They can talk about that in the morning.  
   
   
   


 ** _.four_**

   
Gerard and Ray are laughing and clutching at each other as they stumble onto the bus, Mikey right behind them.  
   
"Hi, Bob," says Ray, which is apparently so hilarious it pitches them all into further hysterical laughter. Bob raises an eyebrow, but decides he doesn't want to know.  
   
"Hi," he says slowly, and then, as a pre-emptive measure, because you can never be too careful with this band, "Don't tell me. Seriously, there are things a dude does not need to know."  
   
Gerard nods solemnly and Ray attempts a straight face, but Mikey looks mildly affronted. "I'm not the one with the oversharing problem," he says, flopping down on the tiny couch. He looks around, frowning. "It's really... quiet in here. Where's Frank?"  
   
Bob allows himself a slight smile. "Tied up," he says, with satisfaction. "That little fucker has threatened my drums for the last time."  
   
"Oh," says Mikey. "Cool." He picks up a discarded magazine and starts to page idly through it.  
   
"Wait, wait," says Gerard. He seems to have forgotten to sit down, which isn't actually that unlikely. His mind is both one-track and highly distractible. "Tied up, or _tied up?_ "  
   
"As in, _tied up_. And maybe gagged." Bob feels absolutely no remorse, only the warm smugness of a job well done. Maybe, he thinks, as Mikey grimaces and throws a balled-up sock at Gerard's head – _maybe_ , if he's feeling really forgiving and full of really fucking inexplicable goodwill – he'll let Frank out for soundcheck later.  
   
It'll be good for him. 


End file.
